The Perils of Command (21 page)

Yet the possibility existed that Barclay would have orders to act against him and not do as Pearce required. Could he open the orders and read them first? Not with the men he now commanded so close by. There was nowhere to gain privacy, either, even when basic needs came upon them – it was over the side or not at all.

At least they were making good speed, and with the pressure of the wind it was sometimes necessary to take up positions on the gunwales to keep the pinnace sailing stiff. The boat fairly raced along sending up a pleasing bow wave and bringing smiles to all five faces aboard. It was necessary to reduce sail as night fell, with a pair asleep and a pair awake, with Pearce doing his best to be fair and keep his eyes open.

Breakfast was biscuit – thankfully fresh baked from Leghorn – and cold duff washed down with water. That
consumed the sail was set to draw once more and since the wind had held overnight they were soon creaming along on a blue sea that reflected a clear sky, leaving behind a startlingly white wake.

‘What was that?’ the senior hand Tucker asked, standing to hold on to a brace and pointing ahead. ‘Topgallant, by the shape of it.’

They had seen the odd sail and even the occasional hull-up merchantman the previous day, but it was not a type of canvas they bore aloft. Topgallants were naval and soon Pearce too was on his feet, the telescope that he had brought along employed, ready to catch sight of what Tucker had seen on the next rise of the boat. What he could not know was that aboard HMS
Semele
the same question was being asked and answered.

‘Frigate, sir, very like one of the pair we espied on the way to Naples.’

‘I will be on deck presently.’

And he was, to find that his lookouts had spotted not one frigate but three and it eventually became evident that they were making no effort to avoid him, holding their heading instead of running, as they had done previously.

‘They might be bluffing, Mr Palmer. We will maintain our course. Let us see what game they want to play.’

It would be a fine balance of force if it came to a fight, Ralph Barclay knew that. He had the heavier weight of shot but they had numbers and manoeuvrability so it came down to will. If they wanted a fight he had little choice but to oblige them if he wished to return to join Hotham, for they held the weather gage. In addition they enjoyed a greater turn of speed than
Semele
. Against that he was sure of his
ship and confident that if they could not emerge unscathed, they could do so victorious and perhaps a trophy to take back to the fleet.

‘I suggest an early dinner for the hands, Mr Palmer, and a double tot of grog immediately after.’

‘And then, sir?’

‘Then? If these fellows are still coming on, we must clear for action.’

Pearce and the crew of his pinnace were much slower to rate the odds in what looked to be the makings of a contest; all four vessels were closing in on each other, though it was, as ever at sea, painfully slow. Low in the water, it had taken much time to observe the enemy numbers and for the man in command even more time to reason that he lacked the knowledge to work out where the advantage lay.

He had been in a sea fight when still rated as a midshipman – indeed it was that action that had got him his promotion to lieutenant – but that had in essence been one capital ship against another. This was different in too many respects, while his rank prevented the men he had with him from speculation, which was frustrating, given he reckoned they might have a better appreciation than he. There was one obvious fact; they had no part other than that of observer in whatever was about to happen.

‘I think it would be wise to shorten sail.’ That got a nod from Tucker, but before he could move to obey Pearce took the opportunity to seek to break the previous silence. ‘And if
any of you have words to say, pay no attention to my rank.’

It was like the breaking of a dam; Pearce was obliged to order them to stop babbling and jumping about lest they affect the boat and to speak in turn, but the conclusions were of a piece. HMS
Semele
was new built by the standards of the fleet and the French were no match for the Wooden Walls of Old England, even if they did have numbers.

All knew that she had already taken part in the Glorious First, which spoke of a crew who would enter a fight with relish as well as a captain who knew his business. It was only as the speculation was taking place that John Pearce was brought to wonder what Ralph Barclay was doing on this patch of water and to question his northward course.

He had never thought it possible to beard him before he reached Naples. At worst, in terms of distance, he might find him between there and Palermo. Yet now he was on a heading taking him away from both. Was he just prize hunting, in which case he had a chance of a sterling success? Or was he on his way back to the fleet, which could mean any number of things?

‘Frigates splitting apart,’ Tucker called, he having granted himself the task of observer, ‘and there is steam rising from
Semele
’s chimney.’

‘Galley fires doused,’ commented another of the sailors, ‘they are certain to fight now.’

‘Which John Crapaud will see as easy as can I, mate,’ said another, ‘so they will know what to guard against.’

The man looked at Pearce to see what he thought but received no response for he was subject to mixed emotions; for Ralph Barclay to lose a battle could not but be welcome to Pearce. But he commanded hundreds of men for whom
he held no grudge and in a fight there would be no respect for rank. Even as the least patriotic of men – he found such sentiments facile – he had to be on the side of his fellow countrymen, for no other reason, if he needed one, than because they were contesting with the bestiality of a French Revolution he had come to despise.

Pearce had shortened sail but he was not going to be content if he could not observe what was unfolding, though he had no notion to get even close to an arc of danger from falling shot, so he steered as near as he thought he dared before taking down the sail to leave the pinnace bobbing in the waves. Nor did he wish those frigates to know of his nationality, which had him take in the small flag that had been raised on the masthead – an act, judging by the looks he got, that found little favour.

To be so close to the water was frustrating; things would occur of which he could only get a partial sight, but that did not apply to the masts of the enemy, now a mass of changing flags as whoever commanded the squadron deployed his force.
Semele
, further off, appeared no larger in sight than the closer French frigate. Only on the very odd rise of a larger wave could he get anything like a plain sight.

Nor was Emily Barclay sure of what was happening. She knew by the commotion that it was serious, not least when the wedges were knocked from the bulkheads that formed her cabin to be swung up and attached to the catches on the overhead deck beams. As she grabbed a shawl she looked right along a deck on which cannon were being loosed and the objects normally stowed out of the way being taken down for use.

As the sailors who had dealt with her walls cleared away
the furniture, Cornelius Gherson appeared with a look on his face that, in the way it changed in a blink, defied analysis. Standing still while a mass of activity took place around him he started by licking his lips and examining her as if she were a fine meal, though Emily thought she recognised his look as filled with lust.

The change in those corn-blue orbs as he spoke, which surfaced only to disappear, was more telling, given it indicated deep loathing. ‘You are to go to the cable tier.’

‘From what I can see this is no exercise.’ That got a shrug. ‘If it is not, then my place is on the orlop deck with the surgeon.’

‘I am happy to take you to the cable tier.’ The lips were wetted again. ‘And perhaps I might stay there with you.’

‘Get back to your grubbing, Gherson, it is all you are fit for.’

‘What a pleasure it would be to teach you a lesson and grant you pleasure at the same time.’

‘You teach me something every time I clap eyes on you and it troubles my Christian beliefs. I learn that there are indeed people in the world with no redeeming features at all.’

The single four-letter expletive summed up where his interest lay. If he had hoped to shock her he failed: Emily had spent too much time on ships of war and overheard too much to be in ignorance of filthy blasphemy.

‘Take this woman to the cable tier,’ he shouted.

If the men close by stopped, it was telling he was not obeyed and indeed one responded, ‘Who are you ordering about, quill scratcher?’

‘Do as you’re told.’

‘Bugger off, savin’ your presence, lady.’

Gherson’s features now showed a degree of petulance, mirrored in the hurt look and the screech that followed. ‘It is a direct order from the captain and you ignore it at your peril. Take hold of her and drag her to the cable tier if need be.’

‘And I am the captain’s wife,’ Emily spat as the hands reluctantly moved to obey. The words stopped them dead for there had been much speculation on her status since the supposed press gang outing and Barclay returned with only her. ‘Lay a hand on me and I think you know what my husband can be trusted to do.’

More likely to flog me than you, she thought, but they hesitated and that allowed her enough time to continue. ‘I intend to go to the aid of the surgeon and it is my fond hope that I do not see you in that place.’

The imperious way she moved kept them still, and despite the yelping of Gherson, they let her pass. They had duties to perform and the clerk was left standing in frustrated impotence as Emily disappeared down the companionway, still unsure of what the ship faced.

That did not apply on the deck of a 74-gun third rate now cleared for action.
Semele
was reduced to topsails, main and forecourse raised and the netting rigged to catch falling debris: Ralph Barclay could very easily see what the enemy was about, though he had little choice but to let them do as they pleased if he declined to reverse his course and enforce a chase.

He had been tacking and wearing into the breeze all morning but that had to be abandoned in favour of a fixed course. Short of hands, he would require everyone on the
guns and that left too few men to work the sails in a way that would permit manoeuvre, difficult in any case with a contrary wind.

‘Ensure that this is entered in the log, Mr Palmer. That our commander has left us short of the men needed to both sail and fight the ship.’

The premier looked set to speak, the head movement noticed by Barclay out of the corner of his eye. But the man decided to remain silent. What he might wish to say was no mystery, for the very fact alluded to seriously affected HMS
Semele
. Did he wish to advise caution, perhaps even flight?

‘Gunnery will decide this, Mr Palmer, and there we ever have the advantage.’

That was not true and Barclay knew it as well as every officer aboard. If the enemy manoeuvred with skill,
Semele
would have to fight both sides simultaneously and that brought risks that some cannon would not be as well employed as they should be, for’tween decks in a battle was no place for a choreographed switch from one weapon to another.

There would be confusion and gun crews long accustomed to working with each other would become mixed. Again, being short of twenty per cent of their complement mattered. Over a hundred men down on the needs of the ship, they could not man all the cannon in the way proper tactics demanded.

As they had closed on the enemy frigates, two had been definitely identified, for like all warships they had features as familiar to anyone who had seen them as those on the face of a friend; individual figureheads, the lines of their design and how they were decorated with carvings in certain places.
Alceste
32 was the smallest and a surprise, for she had been given to the Sardinians by Lord Hood after the fall of Toulon. Clearly she had been retaken, which given the efficiency of the Sardinian Navy was not too much of a shock.

The outlines of the 30-gun
Vestale
were well known, she having been sunk by the Royal Navy during the American War only to be refloated and sold back to them with the peace, but not before being drawn in many a pamphlet. It was the third and largest frigate that caused the most curiosity and speculation, though few could doubt her name for she had been on the stocks in Toulon when Lord Hood had agreed to the takeover of the French naval base on behalf of the legitimate monarchy.

‘Has to be
Minerve
,’ Ralph Barclay opined, for he had been there as a prisoner before and had seen her being built, carving and painting included. ‘Forty guns and she will be stiff.’

‘
Alceste
has altered course to leeward, sir.’

The information, from the man in charge of the forecastle division, had Ralph Barclay shift the midshipman’s shoulder on which he was resting his telescope. It counted that the information was true; it mattered just as much that two other frigates were staying to windward. Whoever had command was offering the middling fighting ship as a tempting target and inviting him to a slight alteration of course to engage her.

‘Clever, my friend, but I decline to bite. Hold her steady, Quartermaster.’

‘It would be instructive to know who has command of the enemy, sir.’

If the question was posed quietly, the answer was loud enough to be overheard by many. Barclay knew that the
remark was prompted by a feeling of disquiet; that had to be countered with an expression of confidence.

‘I think not, Mr Palmer. Since the fall of the Bastille they have been a rum bunch I have found, men promoted above their abilities. As to their crewing, they will have had to scrape the barrel for that and with so little time at sea – recall we keep them bottled up most of the time – they cannot be as well worked up as we are.’

The voice rose to an inspiring shout. ‘Work your guns as well as I know you can and we will see one, if not two of these fellows, with our flag above their damned tricolour.’ Ralph Barclay reckoned the response to be feeble and felt he was required to add more. ‘I have lined your purses once and I will do so again.’

Still no more than a ragged cheer followed but he was not concerned by that; his men would fight not for the love of him or their country but for their own lives and the possibility of a monetary reward.

‘Your wife refused your order, sir.’

Barclay spun to hiss at Gherson as everyone else in earshot went rigid, even if they did nothing to avoid eavesdropping. ‘Keep your voice down.’

The reply lacked courtesy as well as discretion: Gherson had been wounded not only by Emily but by the response of the crew, men he rarely addressed and never considered worthy of an opinion. They had treated him as of no account.

‘There would be no point, sir, given she has told the entire lower deck her name and status.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Gone to the orlop with the pious intent of aiding the surgeon.’

Intended to diminish her, Barclay sought to use it for praise and raised his voice slightly to do so. ‘My wife, indeed, gentlemen. Aiding the surgeon, which shows her sterling qualities.’

If Gherson intended to respond, the first boom of a firing cannon stopped him as
Alceste
was wreathed in smoke. Anyone watching would have seen him visibly shrink, his shoulders hunching into his body. He was a man who suspected every weapon fired by an enemy was aimed personally at him and reacted accordingly.

‘Stay where you are, Gherson, and for the love of Christ stand up straight.’

Barclay said this in a conversational tone and not without a note of humour; he knew his clerk to be a coward and delighted in exposing him to at least the same danger as himself, even if his presence was superfluous. It helped to keep the man in his place. The captain now had Devenow on one shoulder and Gherson on another, the brutish bully indifferent and the clerk resentful enough to wish his employer dead and not peacefully so.

The salvo from
Alceste
had been a ranging one from her 18-pounders, the balls falling short into the sea, which sent up great plumes visible to the crew of Pearce’s pinnace, which told them they had done no harm. Barclay gave the order to reply from his upper deck 28-pounders which, with the greater range plus elevation peppered the sea around the French frigate.

‘You have marked the time, Mr Palmer?’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘There is always a moment of relief, is there not, when the waiting is over and the game is afoot?’ That got another
affirmative reply as the quickly reloaded 28-pounders spoke again, at exactly the same time as those from the frigate to larboard. ‘And that tells us our differing rates of fire, does it not. Let us see what the lower deck cannon can do.’